


inevitable

by upottery



Category: Naruto
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Riding, itachi cannot believe how lucky he is, overdramatic descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upottery/pseuds/upottery
Summary: “I hope you’re hungry, Itachi-san.” He says, his voice is a rough, grating sound and Itachi revels in it. He is not alone anymore. “I brought your favorite.”





	inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> here we are again folks. it's no secret i'm obsessed with itachi's strange and lonely plight. so, here's a relationship study with some dirt nasty junk thrown in.

Itachi is folded up on the tatami floor of some dilapidated inn when he hears the screen slide back. His feet twitch against his legs, the polish on his toenails catching the low light. He looks up to see the setting sun illuminate dust motes, just bright enough to block out the details of Kisame’s face as he enters. Kisame isn’t wearing his cloak, arms exposed and bags of food tucked into them. 

“I hope you’re hungry, Itachi-san.” He says, his voice is a rough, grating sound and Itachi revels in it. He is not alone anymore. “I brought your favorite.” From where he’s sat on the floor, Itachi can see the bright colors of a sack that looks to be bought from a dumpling shop. 

“Thank you, Kisame.” He doesn’t bother getting up, scooting carefully towards the kotatsu where Kisame is laying down the food. “I hope you didn’t only buy dangos.”

“Ahh, Itachi-san, how are we to hunt jinchuriki without consuming a proper diet?” He laughs, but it’s not a pleasant sound. Itachi recognizes this, he’s not blind to the unappealing nature of the man across from him. 

Kisame is a brute. Large, and strange-looking, and unique. A furious fighter with a hideous face, a swordsman, a fiercely loyal partner that Itachi is proud to have. He has no conflicting feelings about Kisame, understanding what he is and what he, decidedly, isn’t. Out of his cloak, Kisame is even more of a fright, Itachi has no doubt people walk on the other side of the street to avoid him.

They do not know him like Itachi does.

They sit and eat in relative silence, passing dishes between each other when asked. Kisame pretends to not notice Itachi training his eyes on the bag of dango, and Itachi pretends not to notice Kisame not noticing. This is how it is for them, how it has been, for years. A silent give-and-take of implicit trust and misunderstood fondness. 

When Itachi contemplates his life, when he is alone, he thinks of these moments as bright spots in his existence. After what he has done, he never expected someone to want to form a bond with him again. He resigned himself to an existence where he always had to be on guard. That is not so here. The comfort in the room is palpable. Itachi is immeasurably glad for small mercies. 

“Itachi-san,” Kisame speaks so softly when they are alone, reverent, Itachi is not worth the gentleness. “Would you like some dessert?” He brings his hands up to the bag full of dango, unfolding the top and pulling out the wrapped treats inside.

Itachi doesn’t say anything, simply slides his delicate fingers around the dowel of one of the tricolor sets proffered to him. He nods towards Kisame, hoping his gratitude is tangible. Their life together is difficult, roaming around the five great nations, shitty inns like these few and far between. However, that’s what makes times like these worth the nights spent lying in dirt. When they do come, Itachi cherishes them, holds the warmth of the kotatsu and the strange company of his partner close to his heart. 

His bingo book entry describes him as a coldblooded killer with no equal, an S-Class criminal with a bounty of too many ryo to count. Itachi wonders how Kisame would describe him, but he doesn’t ask, fearful that the answer might upset the balance in the room. 

Itachi knows how he would describe Kisame, but he wouldn’t ever divulge it, unsure of Kisame’s reaction to Itachi detailing the sense of tranquility that comes from laying your cheek across the expanse of his chest.

Itachi takes a bite from the dowel, pulling the pink dumpling from the end. The sweetness of it bursts onto his tongue, warming him all the way to his chest in only the way nostalgia can. He must be displaying his pleasure plain on his face, because Kisame huffs out a laugh, “Pleased, Itachi-san?” He hums in response, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Ahh, Itachi-san,” Kisame starts softly, “You’re quite beautiful, you know.”

Itachi chuckles, the sound feeling foreign in his mouth, “So I’ve been told.”

“We must look like quite the pair, walking down the street. A petite, androgynous beauty and a hulking beast. I bet we confuse the hell out of people.” Itachi can hear Kisame shift on the tatami without opening his eyes, can feel the air in the room moving around his shoulders. “Come here, Itachi-san, let me try the dango.”

“You told me you hated it.” Itachi bristles at the thought of sharing, Kisame or not. 

“Maybe I just want you to come here.”

Itachi finally looks up, meeting Kisame’s eyes. His face is open, but it’s scheming, thin lips turned up in a corner. Itachi puts the unfinished dumplings back into the wrapping, slightly distraught about leaving them uneaten. Itachi crawls the short distance to Kisame, smiling secretly at the look on Kisame’s face as he watches him approach. Itachi is hardly a charmer.

Without glancing up, Itachi lifts his leg to situate himself atop Kisame’s thighs. It’s times like these where he distinctly feels their age difference, feels the brunt of Kisame’s matured muscles, the power that rests inherently in his body and the defined ridges of it. It’s intoxicating, the thought of the physical power Kisame has over him. Itachi has watched for years the care that this kind of body takes, the attention and focus and determination. Kisame is dedicated to being a shinobi, refining himself as a tool for the Ataksuki to use to better the world. 

Kisame brings one massive hand to rest on Itachi’s hip, warm skin seeping where his shirt has ridden up to expose some of his side. He rests the other hand on Itachi’s jaw, lifting and coaxing Itachi to look at him. “You are a wonder, Itachi-san. A genius, and a martyr. I don’t know which is worse.”

“I do,” Itachi says, and kisses him. Kisame tastes like soba and furikake, salty. Immediately, Itachi notices the bulk of him and feels surrounded, but not trapped. Kisame kisses with a gentle hunger, mindful of his teeth. Itachi has no qualms about slotting his mouth with Kisame, humming pleasantly when Kisame deepens it. 

They get on like a forest fire, Itachi’s core feeling warm and fluid in its movements as he squirms in Kisame’s lap. 

Their time spent together has been memorable, the years melding into one another as Itachi feels himself grow older, his eyes grow tired. Regardless of his true motives in the Akatsuki, Itachi does not regret being Kisame’s partner. Sure, there are occurrences like these, wherein he gets a grasp of the physicality of Kisame, but he enjoys all the time they don’t spend killing just the same. 

Itachi misses his family, misses the openness of his brother’s youthful face, the pride of his parents, the warmth in Shisui’s affection. He feels strange without it, and empty. But, of all the horrible ends Itachi could have encountered after betraying his clan, he knows this is the universe where he is treated best. He is grateful. He is undeserving. 

Kisame’s hand slides into his hair, two fingers pulling at the band tying it together. When it’s freed, it fans out along his shoulders, the strands gracing his back. Kisame runs his fingers through it, spreading the curtain of it around to the front of his shoulders. He feels his eyes flutter closed at the pleasure of someone gently toying with his hair. He hears Kisame take a breath.

“Itachi-san,” Kisame whispers, “lovely. You’re the most incredibly lovely thing I’ve ever seen.”

Itachi wishes he could his experiences put into words, wishes he could quantify amount of air that just left his lungs.

“Kisame,” Itachi breathes, but does not open his eyes. Kisame captures his lips again, and Itachi loses himself in the sensation once more. He still sits in Kisame’s lap, but has been squirming less, simply enjoying the tender feeling of the past few breaths.

Itachi can hear the sounds of the evening through the thin screen that leads to the balcony, the low cicada hum, distant shouts of activity, an occasional passersby underneath. He likens himself to a heroine in a romance novel, the emotional embrace he’s in framed by the idyllic moonlit scene. Anyone could fall in love with this moment, with this man. Itachi’s chest is tight. He cannot afford to love, as no true shinobi can.

Kisame maneuvers his hand up underneath Itachi’s shirt, and Itachi takes the hint to pull it off. When he feels his hair against his bare shoulders he glances back up at Kisame. Kisame is wearing the expression of a man starved. It is a rare thing, for Itachi to enjoy a look of want. “You too,” Itachi says, pulling the hem of the other’s shirt up. 

Kisame shirtless is just as Itachi remembers: a tribute to the capabilities of man and shinobi. He is sculpted such that Itachi finds himself returning to the romance novel narrative. What with Kisame’s physique and unbending loyalty, he is akin to the best of handsome heroes. Itachi is suddenly jealous of the universe where he is here without the trappings of duty and martyrdom.

Kisame brings his mouth to Itachi’s neck, kissing him there wetly as he brings one of his hands to smooth itself over Itachi’s chest. Kisame’s palm is rough, as is the pad of his thumb as he rubs it over Itachi’s right nipple. Itachi keens behind his closed lips, using his hands to maneuver Kisame’s touch down to the cinching clasp of his pants.

Itachi uses the leverage of Kisame’s grip to lift himself out of his trousers slightly, waistband down to his lower thighs. Kisame laughs loudly at Itachi’s lack of underwear. It’s hardly a melodic sound. “Eager, Itachi-san?” Kisame says lowly, breath still warm against his neck. 

“A shinobi is always prepared for any eventuality.” Itachi answers simply, aiming to sound stoic but soiled by the desperate undertone to his voice.

“You want this.” Itachi can hear Kisame’s pleased smirk. Kisame pairs this with a large, calloused hand around his cock. Itachi loves the feeling of his sword-hardened hands sliding over him.

“Like I said,” Itachi forces his words out through the haze, once again guiding Kisame’s free hand around to hover over his exposed rear, “Any eventuality.”

Kisame frees his hand to explore the most intimate area of his partner, groaning when his fingers come back wet. He weakly clamps his teeth down onto Itachi’s jawline, panting with the anticipation. “Itachi-san,” Kisame blows cool air onto the bite he just made, sounding much less composed, “Leaving your hole open for me. For such a pretty thing, you’re so lewd. You astound me.” 

Kisame pulls back to meet Itachi’s eyes, undoing his pants as he goes. He does little more than get his cock out and smooth it over with his own precome and the excess wetness from Itachi’s hole. “Gonna ride me,” He says roughly, “Gonna ride me in this shitty motel in the middle of nowhere in Wave Country. Gonna let me fuck you after you fingered yourself thinking about dango and my cock.”

Itachi moans, unable to hold back his response to Kisame’s words. “Fuck me, Kisame.” Itachi lifts himself up and hovers over Kisame’s cock, breath unsteady as Kisame gestures for him to come down.

The stretch is only slightly painful, mostly good pain, pain that accompanies the pride of knowing his partner like this. Itachi loves to please him, strangely, loves to see a smirk brightening Kisame’s strange face. His smile almost marrs the bestial fierceness of his default expression. Itachi loves to see the unexpected. 

Itachi takes his time at first, getting used to the feeling and finding what feels good. He enjoys the low hum of pleasure from a slow fucking, just a gradual tightening at the base of his cock. Still now, he doesn’t think he deserves this. Kisame is breathing roughly against Itachi’s neck, soft groans and pants of “Ahh, Itachi-san,” smoothing over his skin. It’s heaven, it’s deafening. 

“Faster, Kisame?” Itachi isn't all that surprised with the tone of his voice, deep normally and now laced with inadmissible desperation. Kisame nods into his neck, hands grasping at the lithe muscle of Itachi’s hips, a shinobi’s musculature. Itachi feels the lift of Kisame’s grip and uses his thighs to lift and lower himself more rapidly, breath punching out of him with each thrust of Kisame’s cock. 

Itachi buckles slightly, the feeling overwhelming him, letting Kisame’s biceps do the work of moving him up and down with each thrust of Kisame’s hips. “Itachi-san,” he starts, voice muffled, “let me put you against the tatami.”

Itachi mutters, “Yes, yes,” through the haze, lets himself be manhandled underneath Kisame. His legs spread open on instinct and he keens as Kisame leans over him, feeling the head of his cock breaching him once again. “C’mon,” Itachi is fuzzy and desperate with want, “fuck me, I’m close, K-Kisame, please.”

Kisame’s whole chest rumbles with the sound of his laugh, he brings his lips close to Itachi’s ear, briefly kissing beneath it before whispering, “Uchiha Itachi, clan killer and S-rank criminal, begging for my cock.” He thrusts into Itachi, who chokes. “I can’t believe it. Your voice has tortured so many, Itachi-san, it sounds like music now.”

Itachi only lasts for a few more of Kisame’s thrusts before he comes. It’s inevitable. He digs his nails into Kisame’s back as he does so, moaning such that he’s sure the other guests can hear him. He goes nearly boneless against the tatami mat, and Kisame cradles him after his own release. It’s a tender moment, strange and unusual for their kind. Itachi feels the blessings of shinobi coming down upon him now, to be not so lonely after all that he’s done.

He feels Kisame pulling his pants back on for him, kissing his stomach as he goes. Itachi pulls him up by the armpits and slots his mouth against Kisame’s, immediately tasting his own come on his tongue. It’s not disgusting, per se. It feels strangely final, like a sealing jutsu put on this feeling so that Itachi can relive it again and again.

Whatever life he lived before the end of the Uchiha is gone now, replaced by a hollowness and morality. The necessity of living has taken a back seat to the protection of his brother and his village. Still, when Itachi allows himself to be selfish, he is infinitely grateful he is able to do it here, where it is quiet and safe.


End file.
